The Portrait of Mrs. Charbuque

by Jeffrey Ford

  Although the day had begun with sunshine, it was now growing overcast, and the cold wind that had blown into town the previous night seemed determined to stay. Scraps of paper and dead leaves scuttled along the sidewalk, and my breath came as steam. Others I passed were bundled up for the weather in scarves and mittens, and I had to check my memory to recall what had become of my summer. I relished the fact that painting was not like factory or office work with set periods of labor steadily reminding one of the disintegration of precious hours, but it usually left me with only a vague sense of what day it was. Most of July and all of August and September had been swallowed whole by what was to become the dissatisfaction of Mrs. Reed, leaving me only a faint impression of their suffocating heat. Prior to that, April, May, and early June, the delicate months of spring, were represented by the besotted Colonel Onslow Mardeeling, whose nose, with its eruptions and crevices had been a true study in lunar geography. All of my mature years presented themselves as a gallery of the faces and figures of others. I had to ask myself, “Where was I in all of this?”

  It was well past noon when I finally arrived at my destination, a two-story edifice with marble columns, looking more like a downtown financial institution than a residence. In its white weight of stone it exuded the solemnity of a mausoleum. The amethyst skies had opened the moment I left the streetcar, and it was now raining rather fiercely. A huge maple tree standing before the house was losing its orange five-pointed leaves to the downpour, the brisk wind scattering them across the small lawn and the path that led to the front door. I stopped for a moment to double-check the house number. Then came a flash of lightning, and this prompted me to move.

  I had barely withdrawn my hand from the brass knocker when the door opened inward. There before me stood Mr. Watkin, his head with its milky-white eyes shifting rapidly from side to side.

  “May I help you?” he asked.

  I did not speak immediately, waiting to see if the old man could again place me by my scent.

  Just when I thought I had caught him off guard, he sniffed the air delicately and said, “Ah, Mr. Piambo. Good choice, sir. Please, come in out of the storm.”

  I remained silent, wanting to give him no satisfaction.

  He ushered me into an antechamber off the foyer and instructed me to wait there while he announced my arrival to the lady of the house. To my amazement, what was hanging over the divan on the wall facing me but an original Sabott. I recognized the piece immediately as one I had worked on while an apprentice in my mentor’s studio. It was called At Sea—a fanciful portrait of Mr. Jonathan Monlash, a well-known ship’s captain of the seventies with a famous predilection for the effects derived from smoking hashish. I had been no more than twenty at the time the work was done, and I could still recall the old sailor’s high spirits and unfailing sense of humor. If I remembered correctly, I had painted some of the demons dancing in a dizzying whirl around the head of the long-faced subject. At Monlash’s insistence, Sabott had rendered him with the nozzle of the hookah between his lips. Though made of pigment, the billows of gray-blue smoke issuing from the side of his mouth were so airy they seemed to be rolling and rising. I shook my head at the sight of this long-lost friend, knowing the piece must now be worth a small fortune. So distracted was I by the discovery of the portrait, I forgot where I was and did not notice Watkin’s return.

  “This way, Mr. Piambo,” he said.

  “Where is your violet suit today, Watkin?” I asked as I followed him out of the chamber and down a dark hallway.

  “Violet?” he said. “I don’t recall owning a violet suit. Perhaps you are thinking of the puce.”

  He led me through a sumptuously decorated dining room with crystal lamp fixtures whose reflections sparkled in the mirrorlike gloss of a long table. The walls were hung with paintings I recognized as originals by renowned artists, old masters as well as contemporaries of mine. We passed through a study lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes, and then down a hallway paneled with aromatic cedar, no doubt from Lebanon.

  Finally we came to a room at the very back of the house. My guide opened the door and stepped aside, motioning with his hand for me to enter. As I did, it struck me that Watkin had navigated the entire journey through the heavily furnished rooms without a hitch. I didn’t remember so much as one of his fingers touching a wall to find his place.

  I found myself alone in a large, nearly empty space. There were no adornments here, and there was hardly any furniture to speak of. The ceilings were at least fifteen feet high, and there were two arched windows on either of the side walls. The left-hand view was of a fading rose garden in the rain, a few pale yellow petals still clinging to stems. The opposite view showed a piece of the neighboring house, its architecture silhouetted against the drab sky. To the very left at the back, there was an open door, revealing a shadowed stairway leading up. The floor was magnificent, of a pale maple inlaid with arabesques of a darker wood and waxed to a high sheen. The walls were papered with a green and gold floral design on a cream background. At the very center of the room there stood a screen, five feet tall, consisting of three panels in hinged cherrywood frames. On these panels, the color of old parchment, was depicted a scene of falling brown leaves.

  Positioned in front of the screen was a simple wooden chair with a short back and wide armrests. Watkin, who had stepped into the room behind me and shut the door, said, “You are to sit in the chair. My employer will be with you momentarily.” I walked forward, my steps echoing as I went, and did as I was told. The moment I sat down, I heard the door open and close again.

  I was excited at the prospect of finally meeting my patron, and concentrated on gaining a modicum of composure so as to better represent myself when she appeared. The item I focused on in order to effect this was the subject of what price I would ask for the commission. If Watkin had spoken truthfully, she was willing to part with an extraordinary amount of money. I smiled at the great sums that slithered through my thoughts like eels, and practiced whispering one to see if I could speak it in a voice that would not betray my awareness of how ridiculous it was. The first sounded convincing enough, but when I tried a number a few digits higher, I was startled by a vague noise from behind the screen in front of me.

  “Hello?” I said.

  There was no response, and I was beginning to think that the insubstantial sound of someone clearing his throat had come from my own conscience, directed at my plan of artistic piracy. As I was about to return to my prices, the sound came again.

  “Hello, Mr. Piambo,” said a soft, female voice.

  I froze for a moment and then spoke loudly enough to indicate my embarrassment. “I didn’t know anyone was there.”

  “Yes. Well.” She paused slightly, and I leaned forward. “You may call me Mrs. Charbuque,” she said.

  THE ONLY STIPULATION

  I TRIED TO recall if I had ever heard the name before, but nothing came to mind. “Very well then,” I said. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Watkin tells me that you have agreed to paint my portrait,” she said, the panels of the screen lightly vibrating the sound of her words.

  “If we can make the appropriate arrangement, I am quite interested,” I said.

  Then she mentioned a sum that was far beyond even the most dazzling I had dared to consider.

  I couldn’t help myself. Taking a deep breath, I said, “That is a lot of money.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I don’t want to seem impertinent, Mrs. Charbuque, but may I ask why we are speaking with this screen between us?”

  “Because you may not see me, Mr. Piambo,” she said.

  “How then am I to paint you if I cannot see you?” I asked, laughing.

  “Did you think I would offer you such a great amount of money for an ordinary portrait? Money I have, sir, but I am not a fool with it.”

  “Forgive me,” I said. “I don’t understand.”

  “
Surely you do, Mr. Piambo. You must paint me without seeing me,” she said.

  I laughed again, this time louder, in ratio to my growing confusion. “I would think Mr. Watkin, who navigates the complexity of the city without benefit of sight, would be better suited to the task.”

  “Watkin has his abilities, but painting is not one of them,” she said.

  “Can you give me an idea of how this might work?” I asked.

  “Certainly. You will visit me here, sit before my screen, and ask me questions about myself. From the information I give, my voice and my stories, you will construct in your mind an image of me, which you will then render on canvas.”

  “Excuse me, but I’m afraid that sounds impossible,” I said.

  “Impossible, Mr. Piambo, is a word I have found carries little meaning. I agree that it is difficult, but I have my reasons for making such an odd request. All you need do is paint a fine portrait, which I know you are more than capable of. If, though, you should succeed in capturing my exact likeness, I will double what I have already offered. There is no possibility of failure for you, and there is a chance that you will walk away from this commission extremely wealthy.”

  As she spoke, I tried to form a picture of her from the sonorous voice that seemed now to issue from every point in the room. In my mind’s eye I caught a glimpse of chestnut locks gathered up in a bun, but as soon as she began to speak again, that knot of hair came loose and tumbled down into a whirl of perplexity.

  “The only stipulation is that you cannot see me. If for some reason you should not be able to contain your curiosity and try to gaze upon me, the commission will be immediately canceled and you will be severely punished for your impertinence. Is that understood?”

  “Punished?” I said.

  “I will not be had by your eyes. Should you force the situation, I warn you that Watkin, who has certain—how shall I say it—skills, will deal with you. Don’t be so foolish as to underestimate his proficiency,” she said.

  “Please, Mrs. Charbuque, I’m a gentleman. I can assure you that will not be necessary.”

  “For my part,” she said, “I will answer no questions as to my physical appearance, but other than these, you may ask me anything, and I will be completely forthcoming in my answers.”

  “And the why of it?” I asked.

  “That is not for you to concern yourself with,” she said.

  A brief image of sparkling green eyes flashed in my mind.

  “Do we have a deal?” she asked. “Don’t feel badly if you decide to decline my offer. I have chosen another if you should disappoint me. There is a very fine painter, a Mr. Oskar Hulet, who I believe might do a wonderful job. Do you know of him?”

  “You must be aware that I do,” I said. She no doubt knew as well as I did that Hulet was still in Europe.

  “Perhaps,” she whispered, and I thought I heard her laugh.

  Those eyes turned blue and then hazel as I tried to decide. I envisioned myself engaged in a struggle to the death with Watkin, followed by an image of Hulet at work on a masterpiece, which melted into a recollection of M. Sabott brought low in his twilight years, raving like a madman in the street.

  “Yes, a deal,” I said hastily, feeling equal parts of regret and exhilaration rush through me.

  “Very well. I will be at your disposal between the hours of two and three, every day of the week save Saturday and Sunday, for the next month. You need only come as much as is helpful to you. Perhaps you know enough already to attempt the portrait. At the end of that time, during the second week of November, you must present me with a painting.”

  “Agreed,” I said. “I will return tomorrow and we will begin.”

  “As you wish,” she said.

  Before getting up, I remembered the portrait of Monlash and asked, “Mrs. Charbuque, the painting in the small room off the foyer, the one of the sea captain smoking the pipe, where did you acquire it?”

  “Watkin purchased it somewhere. I also have one of your grandfather Piambotto’s landscapes upstairs. Something with cattle in a meadow drenched in morning light.”

  “You know a few things about me,” I said, not sure I liked the idea of it.

  “I’m a thorough woman, Mr. Piambo. I know everything about you.”

  IT WAS only that evening, while I sat in the balcony of Palmer’s Theatre watching Samantha perform in a newly written version of the old tale of A Ghost’s Amnesia, that the absurdity of what I had earlier agreed to do struck me with all its import. I smiled, realizing that a healthy sense of humor would advance me further with this commission than any other quality. “And what was that business about Watkin punishing me?” I wondered. Mrs. Charbuque was willing to have me dealt grave damage rather than have me see her? I wanted to contemplate this aspect of things a bit more, but my thoughts were shattered when, up on the stage, a masked Samantha suddenly screamed at the touch of an invisible entity that had long forgotten the beauty of life.

  Later on that evening, I lay in bed next to my love. A scented candle she had given me as a gift that night burned in its holder on the dresser. We had gone to Delmonico’s for drinks after the performance. The wine we had consumed and a lazy round of lovemaking finally helped me shake off the pervasive sense of uneasiness that my meeting with Mrs. Charbuque had engendered. I found security in the fact that Samantha was as direct a woman as my patron was mysterious. It was not that Samantha didn’t possess her share of female mystique, but she was also unwaveringly practical and forthright—very much her own person. These traits no doubt had allowed our relationship to continue over many years without her demanding that we marry. If truth be told, she was as devoted to her stagecraft as I was to painting, and this was perhaps the thing I loved most about her.

  “How did you like the show this evening?” she asked.

  “Marvelous,” I said. “You were wonderful.”

  “The aging actress isn’t a part that took much preparation,” she said. “But I thought the ghost was terrible. Who ever heard of a fat ghost?”

  “He was more like a butcher who had fallen into a sack of flour. No Edwin Booth, to be sure. He recited his lines like a dunce learning to read.”

  She laughed. “That is the theater owner’s nephew,” she said. “Derim Lourde is his name. The writer wanted to strangle him when the show was over.”

  “Well,” I said, “his character was supposed to have forgotten about life.”

  “The only problem,” said Samantha, “is that he never quite convinces one that he has ever lived at all.”

  “I don’t think the audience cared,” I told her. “They applauded thunderously, especially for you.”

  “Piambo, you are my favorite critic,” she said, and leaned over to kiss me. “And now, what of your day?”

  I was hesitant at first to divulge the details of my meeting with Mrs. Charbuque, but eventually I decided I would have to tell someone. This was not the type of thing I was capable of keeping a secret until its closure. I gave her the entire story, from my meeting with Watkin to that afternoon’s interview.

  She laughed when I was finished, and said, “There is more insanity in this city than in the entire rest of the world. How are you supposed to accomplish that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but I thought you might give me some questions to ask that would lay bare her likeness to me through her words.”

  Samantha was quiet for a time and then said, “Why are you bothering with this parlor game?”

  “It is a challenge,” I said, “and besides, with what I earn from it, I will be able to escape the economics of portraiture and paint something unique.”

  “So, you are in blind pursuit of wealth in order to avoid pursuing wealth?” she asked.

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “I understand,” she said. “I’ve been getting too many parts lately where I am asked to play the aging actress, the middle-aged wife, the older…whatever. Last month I played a hundred-year-old witch. It
would be absurd for them to cast me now as the lead and love interest, but I would relish the challenge to see if I could still bring it off.”

  “So, what shall I ask?” I said.

  She was silent again.

  “I thought maybe I would inquire about her childhood,” I said.

  “That would be a start,” she said, nodding, “but after that, ask her about these four things: her lovers, her greatest fear, her greatest desire, and the worst day of her life.”

  I thought about Samantha’s list, and just briefly contemplating those questions caused the figure of a woman to cohere in my thoughts. She stood on a flat rock that elevated her above the surf, and the wind was blowing her blue dress, the ringlets of her hair.

  “Good?” she asked.

  I nodded, trying to focus harder on the image, but was momentarily distracted when Samantha got out of bed. In the candlelight, her body looked nearly as young as when she had first come to pose for me twelve years earlier. I watched as she bent above the flame and blew it out. Once in darkness, I could see only a fading image of her smooth back and long legs. She returned to bed and rolled over to put her arm across my chest.

  “That’s a disturbing commission,” she said sleepily. “Somewhere between foolish and mysterious.”

  I agreed, now picturing the falling leaves that adorned the screen of Mrs. Charbuque. It came to me that even that static scene of autumn must be a clue. “What type of woman would choose that object?” I wondered.

  Samantha’s breathing grew shallower, and I knew she was on the verge of sleep.